by Shana Galen
Instead of answering, she looked at his hand, then those eyes that saw far too much. “Release me,” she said in English.
He did so. She dipped the cloth in water again and dabbed at his wound. Strangely enough, she could still feel his touch on her wrist.
“You did not flirt with me, that is how I knew,” he said in strongly accented English.
“I don’t flirt.” She wiped away the last of the blood.
“That is...how do you say? A tragedy?”
“I’m sure it is.” She plopped the wet towel on his face. “Your face is dirty. Clean up while I see if I might find you unsoiled clothing.”
He pulled the cloth off his face. “I doubt you have anything as fine as these.” He glanced derisively at the room.
“No, but what I give you won’t have bloodstains.” She started for the door, then turned back to him. “It’s true.”
He arched a dark brow, the same color as his rich hair.
“You did not deserve to be rescued.” She turned on her heel and marched out of the room. She’d taken no more than three steps when she was seized with guilt. What an awful thing of her to say. She should go back and apologize.
That was when she heard it.
He was laughing.
Three
Laurent pushed himself to a sitting position and wiped his face with the rag. Then he stripped off his coat, loosened his cravat, and undid the buttons at the neck of his linen shirt. The water felt good on his skin—cool and clean. He’d paid for water in La Force, but he wasn’t convinced it had been all that clean.
He liked the woman and chuckled again thinking about her pink cheeks and her nose in the air. As a rule, he didn’t like English women. They bored him in the salons and even more so in bed. But Laurent had to admit he had never seen a beauty—French or English—like this one. She was quite striking. When she’d opened the door, he thought he must have lost consciousness and been dreaming. Until he realized that with his debauched mind, he would never have been able to conjure an image of such pure loveliness. Raven hair, skin so pale and delicate it looked as though it had been fashioned with opals, and surely her body had been carved by the gods. And then there were her eyes. They were such a striking shade of blue as to be almost violet. He’d never seen their like.
Laurent feared he had said more than one unnecessary remark just to force her to look at him with those amazing eyes.
After a few moments, Bernadette—and if that was her name he was Robespierre himself—returned with a simple coat of wool and a shirt of coarse linen. Laurent tried not to look at them with too much distaste. His old life was over. He knew that. But did the new life have to be so completely unfashionable?
He took the garments with a muttered merci and vowed to wear them for Marie-Thérèse. When he had freed her, he’d burn them and happily go to hell with the rest of the world.
But he wouldn’t be of any use to Madame Royale if he didn’t rest and recover from this blow to the head. He’d promised the princess and the dauphin, children as dear to him as any sibling of his own, he would never leave them. He hadn’t forgotten that promise. As much as he hated to don this plain garb, he would not go far if he was recognized as the Marquis de Montagne, friend of Marie Antoinette and a familiar presence at Versailles. “Where is the rest of your League?” he asked the Englishwoman before standing, stripping off his shirt, and tossing it on the floor.
She inhaled sharply and gave him her back. She was a modest woman. Interesting. He had not known one of those in a long time. He pulled the scratchy shirt on, but made no move to dress in the coat.
“I imagine you would know more about their whereabouts than I do. They freed you from La Force.”
Laurent thought back to the men at the courtyard wall outside La Force. “You may turn around,” he said. With a peek over her shoulder, she did so.
“Does the coat not fit?”
“I don’t know. I thought to put it on after I have rested. My head is throbbing like a...” Perhaps it was best if he did not finish that simile. “I need rest. May I?” He indicated the bed where she’d cleaned his wound.
“Of course.” Hurrying forward, she removed the soiled shirt from the floor and fluffed the pillow for him. Her bed? he wondered. It was too small to fit two comfortably, so perhaps she slept alone. There was also another small bed in the chamber. He would have gambled a hundred livres that the other bed was hers. Miss Modest would not have wanted a man to soil her sheets.
He sat on the bed and waited for the spinning to stop.
“Can you tell me more of what happened at La Force? Only if you feel well enough,” she said politely, though her eyes were hungry for information.
“Order your servant to bring tea or wine. I find I am very thirsty.”
“We don’t have a servant. I can fetch it for you.”
No servants? Laurent did not believe for an instant she was a servant. She was far too lovely to scrub floors. She would have been made some man’s mistress the moment she was hired. But she was no courtesan. She was far too modest for that.
“It can wait,” he said, raising a hand to stay her. “I believe I saw your compatriots at La Force. The prisoners are allowed an hour or two in the courtyard each day,” he explained.
“How very civil.”
“Yes. Kind of the revolutionaries to give innocent men and women some small freedoms.” His tone was bitter. He hadn’t even realized how bitter he was until hearing it in his voice. Not for himself. No, he deserved his fate, but for others. For Camille and the Princess de Lamballe and Marie-Thérèse. They had done nothing. “Unfortunately, the mobs either know when we are granted this privilege or bribe the guards to tell them. They stormed the courtyard and attacked the men, women, and children taking their exercise.”
A hand went to her mouth and she paled so that her eyes looked even more purple. Laurent realized she must not have been in Paris long. Anyone who had been in the city for more than a few weeks was used to the atrocities. They had become part of everyday life. But she was still appalled. She was either very naïve or had newly arrived in Paris.
He told her the rest of the story, concluding with the Scotsman who called the other men away.
“And no one hinted at what the problem might be?” she asked.
“No.”
“It’s Alex,” she murmured. “It has to be. Alex is the only one you did not mention.” She closed her eyes, stemming the flow of tears. Laurent wondered who this Alex might be. He also felt an uncharacteristic tug near where his heart had been, back when he had a heart. What would it be like to have someone care for him as she cared for this Alex? Marie-Thérèse cared for him, of course, but she was just a girl. And like most royals, she cared much more for herself than anyone else. Amélie had cared for him, but she had died such a long time ago.
“I’m sure your Alex is fine,” Laurent said. “Your League is renowned for evading the National Guard and the agents of the Committee of Public Safety.”
“I hope you are correct. I will be back in a few moments with some refreshment. Then you should rest. When the others return, I’m sure you will have much to talk about.”
He was certain they would. There was a reason the League had saved him and sent him here, and it was not Christian charity.
We need him and what he knows.
When she was gone, he removed his shoes and reclined on the bed. It was not much better than the one he’d had in La Force, but it was quieter and smelled better. He should not waste time lying in bed. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He should start planning. He should take what he needed and go to Marie-Thérèse before the whole city was looking for him.
But the sheets were so clean and the mattress so soft, and he had missed these comforts. And his head still ached. He’d close his eyes just until the pounding subsided and then...
For the first time in months, perhaps years, he slept and did not dream. When he awoke, the room was darker and a
tray of cold tea and bread had been placed beside the bed. He was alone in the room, and he heard no other voices in the house. This section of the Rue du Jour was not a busy thoroughfare, and he heard only the occasional rise and fall of voices as people passed by.
Laurent sat up slowly. His head still ached, but the pain was tolerable. He sipped the cold tea, ate the bread, and then rose. He could not afford to waste any more time. The king had been executed and the queen would be next. He could not help Marie Antoinette, although he had heard rumors at La Force that a rescue had been planned by Count von Fersen or that the Austrian government might save her yet, although Thugut, the Austrian minister, had publicly spoken out against this.
Perhaps the Scarlet Pimpernel would save her. If the man could save a wretch like he, even the queen might be saved.
In any case, Laurent’s concern was Marie-Thérèse. She was imprisoned in the Temple with her mother and aunt, Madame Élisabeth. The princess probably had Marie-Thérèse praying night and day. She was the most devout woman Laurent had ever met, and he’d avoided her assiduously when he’d been at Versailles. But Laurent was in possession of vital information, and this information was his best guess at why the Pimpernel’s men had saved him. As children, he and the king’s brother had played at the Temple. He knew it well, knew all of its secrets.
He had no time for the Pimpernel’s games. Laurent would go to the Temple, make his way in using the secret tunnel only he and perhaps a handful of others knew of, find the children, and escape with them. Then he’d only need good papers and a little coin to take all three of them over the border and to safety. He could get the coin from his apartments in the Boulevard du Temple.
Since he didn’t fall over, Laurent made his way out of the room and wandered to the stairwell. It was a small house, and he’d had to take only half a dozen steps. No one had rushed out to stop him. In fact, he wondered if he’d been left alone. Perhaps the Englishwoman had gone to fetch the National Guard to take him back to La Force and claim the reward.
With some care, he made his way down the steps and into the entryway. It opened into a small parlor, and beyond that he could see the dining room. Laurent stepped into the parlor and from that vantage point, he could see the Englishwoman sitting at the table. From his angle, she was in profile, and her features were the perfect illustration of rapt concentration. Curious, he moved closer and noted she had a quill in one hand and seemed to be scratching something on a paper. Besides the ink pot and wax at her hand were several brushes, paint, and a small saucer of ashes.
What the devil was the woman doing?
Whatever it was, she was so engrossed in it, she did not even notice his approach. He could move silently when he wished and as he’d forgotten to put his shoes on again, his feet made no sound as he neared her. A fire burned in the hearth nearby, and she looked truly lovely in its light. The glow made her black hair shine and gave those pale cheeks and lips rosy color.
Her hair had been styled simply—rather artlessly—but the coil above her neck emphasized the long graceful column of it. How he would have liked to run a finger down the back of that neck. He imagined her skin was as soft as silk. He would place a kiss where the first bone of her spine was visible and watch her body tremble in pleasure.
Finally, his gaze strayed back to the table, and he took a step back. Before her were two sets of identification papers, such as the kind every Frenchman was required to possess to pass in and out of Paris or the country. The first was obviously an original document. The second was in progress, a forgery. Now he understood the point of the ashes and the paint. Those were to make it look as realistic as possible. What a stroke of luck. If she’d give him the papers and coin, he’d be on his way.
“You’re making that for me,” he said when she’d lifted her pen to dip it in the ink pot.
She jerked and jumped from her chair. “You frightened me!” she accused.
“It was not my intention. You were quite involved in your work. You could hang for forgery, you know.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Only if I am caught. And I would probably be guillotined.”
“Why risk it? May I?” He indicated the table, and she nodded. He lifted the paper and studied it against the original. “It’s very good.”
“I risk it because without these papers those condemned to the guillotine have no hope of escape.”
Laurent glanced at her, then back at the forgery. It really was very good. “I thought FR smuggled them out in wine casks.”
“He cannot continue to use the same methods or the soldiers will catch him. The nature of his work is to stay one step ahead of the soldiers.”
“This isn’t for me.” Perhaps she’d already made his or needed him to give her more instructions.
She shook her head as though amazed at his statement. “No. It is not for you. I’m certain that must be hard for you to comprehend, but there are others who need help.”
“I must seem very arrogant to you.”
She didn’t respond.
“It is hard to change after a lifetime of behaving in such a way. Perhaps it will surprise you if I tell you it is not out of selfishness I want one of your forged papers.”
“If you think to surprise me with your lack of arrogance,” she began, lifting her cup of tea and sipping, “you have failed. To reject something that has not even been offered is quite arrogant.”
She was correct, of course. And he was arrogant, privileged, spoiled, vain—everything he’d ever been accused of. But to his surprise, his heart was not completely rotten. “I do not want to be rescued. In fact, I do not care what happens to me. There is only one person I care about, and I need your papers”—another thought occurred to him—“I need your League to help me save her.”
“Is that so?”
The voice, deep and male, came from behind him. Suddenly three men and a petite woman were standing behind him. They couldn’t have come through the door. He would have heard it open. So where the hell had they come from?
As though reading his mind, the biggest revolutionary, the one he recognized as giving him the foolscap at La Force today, smiled with no humor whatsoever. “Unnerving, isn’t it? You never know when we will appear.”
“Secret passage.” That was the woman. She looked vaguely familiar.
The big one scowled at her, but she shrugged. “As though he would not have figured it out.”
They spoke in French, but they had the look and manner of the English. The woman, a pixie with cropped blond hair, crossed to the dark-haired beauty and took her arm.
“I see you found your way here,” the big one said to Laurent. His mouth was tight and his eyes shadowed from fatigue. “A pity we can no longer use you.”
“What does that mean?” Laurent demanded.
“Surely ye daen’t think we freed ye because your execution would hae been unjust.” That was the Scot—broad-shouldered with a thick mane of unruly hair and dark stubble on his cheeks.
“Then why did you help me escape?”
“The rumor is that you have been in the Temple,” the little blonde said. “We haven’t been able to obtain the design plans. We wanted you to draw a map for us, or better yet, take us in.”
Laurent had guessed correctly. He would have liked nothing better than to help them gain entrance to the Temple prison. He would have gone with them and rescued Madame Royale himself. But these men and women spoke in the past tense. “And now?” he asked.
“Now everything has changed.” That was the big, dark one again.
“How so?” asked the raven-haired beauty.
“It’s the queen,” the little blonde said. “They’ve taken her from the Temple and imprisoned her in the Conciergerie.”
Laurent’s skin felt as though ice had been applied to it, and he took in a sharp breath. There was no mistaking the new government’s plan if they’d moved the queen to the Conciergerie. The end was near for Marie Antoinette. The Conciergerie was where men and wome
n were sent for trial by the Tribunal. Very few ever tasted freedom again. Most left in a tumbrel with their last stop the guillotine.
“They mean to kill her as they did the king,” said the big man. “The trial will be a farce. I don’t know when it will begin, but in the meantime, she’ll be under constant watch. We’ve lost our chance.”
These men and women thought to rescue the queen. Even her own people, the Austrians, had not cared that much for her.
“Which means,” said the auburn-haired man who’d stood in the back quietly, “Citoyen Bourgogne will take a trip to England sooner than we anticipated. As soon as Ffoulkes returns, we make plans. Honoria, can you provide the papers?”
Laurent’s gaze snapped to the beauty. Honoria. That was her name. It suited her, he thought. He saw now that it was not modesty that had stained her cheeks earlier, but her sense of honor. France had no need for honor at present. All that mattered was loyalty to the revolution. Honor could be damned. Laurent had seen many honorable men go to the guillotine.
“Of course,” she said. “I will start on them tonight, providing we have no more visits from soldiers.”
“Ffoulkes can take him on the next packet,” the petite blonde said. “The sooner we are rid of him, the better. I don’t believe the guards at La Force will realize he has escaped, but if they do, the National Guard will tear the city apart looking for him.” She looked directly at him. “It’s a wonder you’ve kept your head this long, monsieur.”
“I don’t intend to keep it much longer,” Laurent said before someone else could add to the plan he had no intention of following. “Nor do I intend to leave on a packet for England.” He shuddered. God save him from English food and fashions. He’d rather be dead.
The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel stared at him in silence until finally Honoria cleared her throat. “What do you intend?”
“I mean to rescue Madame Royale. I mean to take the daughter of King Louis and Queen Marie Antoinette out of France and to safety.”
